Friday, April 18, 2014

Broken Bones

Forty years ago, two days after Pesach ended in Israel,
the day after it was over in Arizona where I was living, and forty-nine days
before my wedding, I broke my arm. It is amazing how things can change in just
a matter of seconds. First, I was standing in line at the kosher bakery eagerly
asking for bread and other baked goodies. Then, I needed to write a check for
my delicious smelling purchases. Not knowing how to spell the name of the
bakery I walked backwards into the parking lot to check its sign. Instead of
seeing the sign I fell backwards, hard. I caught my fall with my left hand and
immediately knew something was not right.

Several hours and two X-rays later my arm was encased in
a white plaster cast from just below my shoulder almost to the tips of my
fingers. There were many things I could not do. I could not wash my hair or
dishes. I could not wear many of my clothes. I could not drive or ride my
bicycle. I became dependent on my roommates, my fiancé, and other friends. It was not a particularly pleasant situation.

There are many handicapped people in the world who have
managed to become totally independent. Impatiently I wondered why I couldn’t be
more like them. After a while I began to understand the reason. They had many
months or years of rehabilitation. I was
supposed to have my cast on for a total of six weeks, not enough time for any
serious retraining.

Six weeks work out to be forty-two days. Worries about
how I could tie my shoes gave way to more serious concerns. Would my arm heal properly?
Would I have the cast off a week before the wedding? Would I be able to wear
the wedding dress I had sewn with long, fitted cuffs from just below the elbow
to the wrist? More important, would I be able to go to the mikvah before I was
married?

HaShem was good to me and the answer to all of the above
questions was yes. The cast was off and I had a flesh-covered, Velcro splint.
My dress fit easily over it and it could be taken off and on with just a flick
of the wrist. Life was back to normal except for the aches that would precede a
rain storm. After several years even that passed and my broken arm became a dim
memory.

Eighteen years ago, seven days before Seder night, and
four days after the children had begun their school Pesach vacation, I took a few
minutes to sit down for a well deserved break. I had just taken a sip of my
soda when there was a loud knock at the door. That doesn’t sound good, I
thought. Before I had time to stand up the knock came again, even louder.
Nervously, I made my way to the door to find a twelve-year-old neighbor boy
standing on my doorstep.

“Your daughter needs you,” he spoke seriously. Message
delivered he scampered off to continue his play.

I pulled off my apron and set out in search of my young daughter.
I found her a few houses away. Her face was pale and she was trying to swallow
sobs. Another neighbor boy, this one several years older than the first, was
walking her bicycle with one hand, leading her with the other, all with a big
water gun tucked under his arm, and terribly guilty look on his face.

Relieved to see me he gladly turned over the
responsibility of my daughter. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and was off. It was
quite some time later that I understood the reason for his apology. As my
daughter had rounded the curve of our mountain top road for the thirteenth time
without training wheels he came by. Water gun in hand he tried to spray her.
Trying to avoid getting wet she managed to jerk the bike so it went flying, along
with her, over the side of the hill. She and the bike landed on rocks and both
were injured.

Her cast was just to the elbow but it was her right hand
that was broken, the hand she used to write, eat, brush her hair and teeth, and
countless other things. At such a young age she was already very dependent on
her parents and older siblings. With the broken arm she just became more so. I
would like to think that my experience with a cast made me a more sympathetic
mother. Perhaps that was the reason I had broken arm in the first place. After
all, HaShem has His plans for everything.

A close look at this wedding picture shows the splint on my left hand.

Aim of Blog

Emunah, faith in God, does not mean believing only good things will happen; it means believing that whatever God does is for the best. I wrote these words at a time when drive-by shootings and suicide bombers had become almost weekly, if not daily, tragedies. Now, more than ten years later, the words are no less true. Whatever HaShem does is for the best. It is my hope to post articles, advice, and homey stories everyweekwhich will reinforce this fact. And now, a special thanks to:

Batya Medad, my neighbor and experienced blogger. Without her I would never have been able to set up

About Me

Born in Wichita, Kansas, I became a Baalat Teshuva, newly religious, in Phoenix, Arizona while attending ASU. After twelve years of marriage my husband and I made Aliyah with five children and settled in Shilo in the heart of Israel. Two more children joined the family as have daughters-in-law, sons-in-law, and grandchildren, Baruch HaShem. My favorite past times are learning, sewing, hiking, reading, cooking, baking, enjoying my family and friends, and, of course, writing. My first novel, Sondra’s Search, was published in 2007 and I am working on the sequel.